who’s a good tracking device
How to Have Better Sex in 2014
This is an article about having better sex in 2014. To take you to new erotic heights, I was going to give you some practical sex advice: don’t fuck two participants in a threesome with the same condom on, a guy will almost always love it if you sit on his face, ladies don’t like cum in their hair, etc. But, to be honest, practical tips turn sex into a bizarre shopping list: If you didn’t like Tip #2: “Draw a sexy bull’s-eye around your nipple with rhinestones and eyelash glue” (an actual Cosmo tip), then try Tip #9: “Gently stick his penis through the hole of a glazed donut” (another REAL TIP). These tips are impractical. There is really only one tip I can give you: use your mouth.
For talking, guys. For talking. I talked to a bunch of normal people I know and asked them what happened with their dicks, pussies, and asses in 2013 and what they’re going to do to make it better in 2014.
Pat, 30, is a regular human who had a good sex year: “Sex for me this year was all about learning to have sex consistently with one partner. Previously I was more of a casual sex/fuckbuddy person, but now that I have a girlfriend I had to get used to the idea of having monogamous sex with the same woman, all the time. Partner sex is less about getting drunk enough to do crazy shit and more about looking each other in the eyes and soberly telling each other what you want. In 2014 I think that trust will serve to help us explore even further our desires and sexual proclivities in a way that neither of us have had the opportunity to in the past. And by that I mean butt stuff.”
Watch: Lil Bub & Friendz, Part 2
Aside from emo stars, the sparrows tattoo is probably the most cliché of all scene tattoos. For ladies, anyway. Dudes who have sparrows tattoos have bigger problems on their hands than being cliché. There are two places you can get the sparrows. The first is on your hip bones, which is a delightful way to let anyone about to get into your pants for the first time know that this territory has already been charted by the singer of a mid-level screamo band.
Babysit My Ass
Dir: Joey Silvera
In April, after a battery of tests, at age three and a half, my firstborn son was diagnosed on the autism spectrum. Perhaps I should have realized something was up sooner—like at ten months when he lined 34 pancake bites across his highchair tray equidistant apart from each other in a straight line. Or at age two when he became very particular about how his toys and books were put away and any deviation would result in a meltdown. But I had no idea what signs to look for. I was a first-time parent with no father to ask for guidance. It took my son’s preschool teacher to tell me his humming and outbursts warranted professional examination.
It seemed just as the diagnosis came back that things were at their worst; meltdowns and outbursts were becoming violent, and he nearly broke my wife’s nose with a kick to the face in one particular instance. I wrapped him up in my love and rocked him back and forth to calm him down. I whispered in his ear how bad it is to hit people.
July 1 marked my seventh wedding anniversary and I found myself in a car headed for Maine on a camping trip with my family. The campsite, as you would hope, smelled of inbreeding and white trash from various parts of America. The people at the cabin next door to ours were from Ohio. The wife and husband both wore glasses, giving them the appearance of being learned; I realized this to be false advertisement when their five-year-old daughter rode up on her bicycle and said, “Mommy! Drinky!” and proceeded to hop off her bike and run over to her mother who was simultaneously whipping out her deflated tit to put in the child’s mouth.
The swimming pool was ice-cold but had four hot tubs in a row beside it. My son liked to jump in the freezing cold water, letting his temperature drop, then hop in each of the hot tubs for exactly 34 seconds before moving on to the next. Two hot tubs were marked under 18 and two were marked over 18. He can already read but he chose not to heed the signs and I didn’t stop him; he was enjoying himself.
A 40-year-old redneck guido (picture a mullet and gold chain, Oakley Blades, and a Pam Anderson barbwire arm tattoo) tried to regulate a hot tub for him and his bro. My son paid him no mind and slid into their tub. The guy told my son, “No kids allowed.” My son ignored him and continued to count to 34. I told the fucker, “It’s fine, I’m his dad.” He kept on and pointed to the sign and said it was 18 and over. I looked at him and laughed. He had no idea how important counting to 34 was to my boy, and I wasn’t going to tell him. It was none of his goddamn business, and I wasn’t going to give my son a “He’s special” crutch to walk around with his whole life. If his wild eccentricities make him happy, there’s no reason for him or anyone else to apologize for them. I told the Kenny Powers stunt double, “It’s a campground. We’re all on vacation. Chill out.”
With that he leapt out of the water and puffed up in my face. He was begging me to pummel him senseless and fill that tub full of blood, and it took everything I had to restrain myself.
“You are fighting in defense of a hot tub, you cocksucker. I am fighting for my son. Who do you think is going to win that fight?” I asked him. Maybe his Oakley Blades made him a learned man for that instant because he let it go.
It was the closest I’ve come to beating a man in front of my son. I feel awful he saw me that way, and I could tell in his fearful eyes that it resonated in him.
“Thirty-four?” I asked him.
“Do you want ice cream?”
As we walked for a chocolate cone with rainbow sprinkles he asked, “Were you going to hit that man, Daddy?”
“No, boy. We don’t hit.”
Read more Skinema from our past issues here.
Camel Wrastlin’ in Turkey
Camel wrestling is a Turkish tradition that dates back almost 2,500 years. The animals are typically imported from nearby countries and brought to Turkey’s Aegean region, where most of the wrestling takes place. In a lot of ways it’s like a goofier and less-deadly version of cockfighting. Two males are brought into the arena and, depending on who’s running the match, one of two things will happen. If it’s a traditional match, a female will be paraded around the ring and made to shake her ass while the males watch on, drooling buckets of foamy spit in sexual frustration until the female’s owner takes her out of the ring, at which point the males fight each other under the misguided assumption that whoever wins will get laid. If the match adheres to the more contemporary—and some say civilized—way of preparing camels to fight, the owners will pull the camels together, putting them face-to-face until they start fighting. According to Wikipedia, organizers have also “attempted to entangle two camels together or starve the camels to make them more aggressive.” The match is over when one of the camels falls down, runs away, or screams.
But the event is more than just a bunch of Turks sitting around watching camels try to bite each other’s balls off. Like most sporting events, a sense of camaraderie fills the stadium. Thick smoke from the dozens of barbecue fires (some of which are cooking camel meat) wafts between the spectators and fighters, and a steady stream of raki, Turkey’s national liquor, keeps the crowd lively.
I visited a fight recently and was able to sneak into the arena to get these shots—and a lot of camel spit in the face—before being almost trampled and then kicked out by the officials.